Traveler of the Century (60 page)
Read Traveler of the Century Online
Authors: Andrés Neuman
I, dear son-in-law, Herr Gottlieb resumed, tugging on his moustache as he might a bootlace, can vouch one hundred per cent for my daughter, her honour and her good name. However, in your place, if, as Sophie's soon-to-be husband, I harboured the slightest doubt I would put a stop to it immediately. With the utmost discretion, naturally. I mean, if such were the case. Because, needless to say, it is not.
Rudi smiled tersely and replied: Of course not, my dear Herr Gottlieb, of course not. This is simply a question, how can I say, of the norms of acceptable behaviour. But you have set my mind at rest. God be with you.
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The inn had been slowly emptying. The early morning sounds of doors opening and closing, of feet on the stairs, of noises in the corridor, had ceased. The creak of wooden floors was different, hollow. The windows seemed smaller, the light from them shrunken. Dawn had an insipid feel, and there was a brooding echo to Frau Zeit's slow passage through the empty rooms, as if she were expecting the departed guests to somehow reappear. A pile of firewood had begun to form in the lean-to in the backyard, the tongs appeared gleaming in the hearth, the wool blankets had reappeared on the beds. The postman's gallop scarcely slowed before the entrance, and the only packages he left were for the guest in room number seven. Silence had
settled once more over the inn, and yet Hans, who had spent the whole summer lamenting the early morning noises disrupting his repose, was still unable to sleep properly. He would fall asleep for a few hours, then suddenly, inexplicably, he would begin to toss and turn, kept awake by the expectation of comings and goings that never materialised. Until that morning, after getting up and turning the watercolour round in order to shave, he looked at the dark shadows under his eyes, the stubble on his chin, and he understood the reason for his unrest. It wasn't merely the deserted atmosphere of places once people had departed. It was above all the aftermath of that emptinessâwith the arrival of autumn, he had stopped being an observer at the inn and had become a protagonist. He had become accustomed to studying the anonymous guests, to guessing at their lives from their faces, to imagining their futures. And now, all of a sudden, he was once more the focus of his own gaze. Hans closed the razor, ran his tongue behind his lips, checked the sides of his face and turned the mirror back to the wall.
settled once more over the inn, and yet Hans, who had spent the whole summer lamenting the early morning noises disrupting his repose, was still unable to sleep properly. He would fall asleep for a few hours, then suddenly, inexplicably, he would begin to toss and turn, kept awake by the expectation of comings and goings that never materialised. Until that morning, after getting up and turning the watercolour round in order to shave, he looked at the dark shadows under his eyes, the stubble on his chin, and he understood the reason for his unrest. It wasn't merely the deserted atmosphere of places once people had departed. It was above all the aftermath of that emptinessâwith the arrival of autumn, he had stopped being an observer at the inn and had become a protagonist. He had become accustomed to studying the anonymous guests, to guessing at their lives from their faces, to imagining their futures. And now, all of a sudden, he was once more the focus of his own gaze. Hans closed the razor, ran his tongue behind his lips, checked the sides of his face and turned the mirror back to the wall.
Contrary to his nocturnal habits, Hans spent the morning translating. At noon, he went down and devoured a bowl of Frau Zeit's thick vegetable stew. Afterwards, he went back up to his room to change his clothes and put on some scentâtoday was Friday. He left the inn winking at Lisa (who initially pretended to turn away) and walked towards Café Europa to have his fourth coffee of the day with Ãlvaro. As usual he arrived late, despite having left in good timeâhe had to circle Glass Alley half a dozen times, and swore to his friend he couldn't for the life of him find the side street he usually took. The two men exchanged confidences, grumbled about the same things, and began strolling in the direction of Stag Street. As they stood in front of the doors to the Gottlieb residence, Hans remarked: Look, I'm sorry, this must seem stupid, but wasn't the swallow door knocker on the right, and the lion's head on the left? What?
Ãlvaro said, surprised. The swallow on the? Hans, did you sleep all right? The fact is I didn't, he replied.
Ãlvaro said, surprised. The swallow on the? Hans, did you sleep all right? The fact is I didn't, he replied.
As they entered from the icy corridor, they discovered Sophie sitting at the piano, and her father, Rudi and Professor Mietter all applauding. Hans thought she looked pale as she smiled at him, concerned. Would you give us latecomers the pleasure of an encore, dear friend? Hans said in greeting. As you already know, Rudi replied sharply, “
Paganini non ripete
”. Paganini, declared Ãlvaro, is a violinist. Rudi took offence: And what has that to do with anything, Herr
Urquiho
. Hans slipped over to the windows. The blue curtains seemed heavier. Through a gap in the shutters he glimpsed a misty corner of the market square and the question mark of the Tower of the Wind. Hans sensed Sophie's eyes on his back, but he decided to be careful and carried on staring out of the window until the others arrived. In the meantime, Ãlvaro, Rudi and Professor Mietter discussed the aesthetic of the encore. Half-closing his eyes and listening carefully, Hans could distinguish Herr Gottlieb's gruff, tutorly murmur addressing his daughter, whose voice was scarcely audible. It's going to rain, thought Hans, and his observation was accompanied by one of Sophie's distinctive sighs (well-timed, drawn out, with a hint of playful irony). Suddenly Frau Pietzine's voice burst in, followed by that of Bertold, and a tinkle of cups and teaspoons rang out. When Hans turned round, he glimpsed Elsa's raised eyebrows as Ãlvaro flashed her a sidelong smile.
Paganini non ripete
”. Paganini, declared Ãlvaro, is a violinist. Rudi took offence: And what has that to do with anything, Herr
Urquiho
. Hans slipped over to the windows. The blue curtains seemed heavier. Through a gap in the shutters he glimpsed a misty corner of the market square and the question mark of the Tower of the Wind. Hans sensed Sophie's eyes on his back, but he decided to be careful and carried on staring out of the window until the others arrived. In the meantime, Ãlvaro, Rudi and Professor Mietter discussed the aesthetic of the encore. Half-closing his eyes and listening carefully, Hans could distinguish Herr Gottlieb's gruff, tutorly murmur addressing his daughter, whose voice was scarcely audible. It's going to rain, thought Hans, and his observation was accompanied by one of Sophie's distinctive sighs (well-timed, drawn out, with a hint of playful irony). Suddenly Frau Pietzine's voice burst in, followed by that of Bertold, and a tinkle of cups and teaspoons rang out. When Hans turned round, he glimpsed Elsa's raised eyebrows as Ãlvaro flashed her a sidelong smile.
More tense than usual, although employing her usual strategic methods, Sophie clung to her role as organiserâit was her way of defending herself against the despondency that was beginning to haunt her, and above all, of protecting those few hours of subtle independence for which she had fought so hard. She stood up to greet the Levins, who had just walked in with that forced, rather unconvincing display of cheerfulness couples have
when they have been arguing minutes before arriving at a party. Well, my dear friends, Sophie announced, now that we're all here, I'd like to propose that we keep the promise we made to Herr
Urquixo
last week of reading a few passages together from our beloved Calderón (marvellous, Ãlvaro beamed, marvellous), and I've taken the liberty of selecting a few scenes from
Life Is a Dream
, because I assumed everyone would be familiar with the work. (Rudi cleared his throat and helped himself to a pinch of snuff.) Is everyone agreed, then? There are, let me see, one, two, three, seven characters altogether, and we have two copies of
Life Is a Dream
here in the house, plus two more which I borrowed from the library. (Ah, Ãlvaro suddenly realised, we'll be reading it in German, then.) Naturally,
amigo
! How else? (Of course, Ãlvaro nodded, disappointed, I understand, but,
La vida es sueño
in German, ay!) View it as an informative exercise, it'll be as if you are hearing it for the first time (let's look at the translation, may I see a copy? Hans asked), here you are, don't get too professional about it now, Monsieur Hans! Well, if everyone is ready, we'll assign the roles. Any volunteers?
when they have been arguing minutes before arriving at a party. Well, my dear friends, Sophie announced, now that we're all here, I'd like to propose that we keep the promise we made to Herr
Urquixo
last week of reading a few passages together from our beloved Calderón (marvellous, Ãlvaro beamed, marvellous), and I've taken the liberty of selecting a few scenes from
Life Is a Dream
, because I assumed everyone would be familiar with the work. (Rudi cleared his throat and helped himself to a pinch of snuff.) Is everyone agreed, then? There are, let me see, one, two, three, seven characters altogether, and we have two copies of
Life Is a Dream
here in the house, plus two more which I borrowed from the library. (Ah, Ãlvaro suddenly realised, we'll be reading it in German, then.) Naturally,
amigo
! How else? (Of course, Ãlvaro nodded, disappointed, I understand, but,
La vida es sueño
in German, ay!) View it as an informative exercise, it'll be as if you are hearing it for the first time (let's look at the translation, may I see a copy? Hans asked), here you are, don't get too professional about it now, Monsieur Hans! Well, if everyone is ready, we'll assign the roles. Any volunteers?
Everyone decided Rudi should play the part of Prince Segismundo, at which Hans clapped his hands ironically. Sophie asked Professor Mietter to read the part of King Basilio, and the professor, flushing with pride, made as if to hesitate before accepting. Hans was given the part of Astolfo, also a prince, though with fewer lines than Segismundo. Frau Pietzine seemed happy to personify Lady Rosaura. They had difficulty convincing Frau Levin to take on the timid role of Princess Estrella. Ãlvaro declared he was incapable of reciting Calderón in German and preferred to listen, and so Bertold had no choice but to accept the part of Fife the jester. (Seeing as it's only a play, thought Bertold, why the devil can't I play a prince or a king?) Herr Gottlieb was equally displeased at being given the role of old Clotaldo, although he limited himself to twirling his whiskers
in protest. Herr Levin, who wasn't an admirer of Calderón, sat next to Ãlvaro to give the impression of an audience. Sophie acted as stage director, instructing everyone until at last the performance was ready to begin.
in protest. Herr Levin, who wasn't an admirer of Calderón, sat next to Ãlvaro to give the impression of an audience. Sophie acted as stage director, instructing everyone until at last the performance was ready to begin.
PROFESSOR MIETTER
[with affected unease]
:
[with affected unease]
:
What was that?
RUDI
[in his element, looking at Hans, or perhaps not]
:
[in his element, looking at Hans, or perhaps not]
:
It was nothing.
I threw a man who wearied me
From a balcony into the sea.
I threw a man who wearied me
From a balcony into the sea.
BERTOLD
[nodding unenthusiastically, and without an ounce of charm]
:
[nodding unenthusiastically, and without an ounce of charm]
:
Be awareâhe is the King.
Hans, who is not in the scene, stops listening and stares at Sophieâin profile, very alert, she looks like a melancholy statue.
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PROFESSOR MIETTER
[his wig all a-tremble and with such lofty indignation!]
:
[his wig all a-tremble and with such lofty indignation!]
:
Greatly it grieves me, prince
That when I have come to see you
Thinking to find you restored,
Having freed yourself from fates and stars,
Instead I find you so severe
That you on this occasion have committed
A foul murder â¦
That when I have come to see you
Thinking to find you restored,
Having freed yourself from fates and stars,
Instead I find you so severe
That you on this occasion have committed
A foul murder â¦
The professor's earnestness and the stress he places on each inflection amuses Hansâthe exceedingly Protestant professor has become quite Catholic. Ãlvaro catches his eye, they wink at one another:
⦠Whoever that has seen
The naked blade which
Struck a mortal wound
Can be without fear?
The naked blade which
Struck a mortal wound
Can be without fear?
Elsa comes in with a tray of canapés halfway through the professor's speech; she wonders whether to carry on or to stop in order not to distract him; she almost loses her balance, catches herself, steadies the tray, sighs angrily. Ãlvaro watches her affectionately.
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RUDI
[recalling suddenly, as he reads, a sad episode from his childhood]
:
[recalling suddenly, as he reads, a sad episode from his childhood]
:
⦠that a father who against me
Can act so cruelly
And with such bitter spite
Cast me from his side â¦
Can act so cruelly
And with such bitter spite
Cast me from his side â¦
Mortified by Rudi's intonation, his insistence on leaving a long pause at the end of each verse thus breaking up the flow, Sophie gives up trying to direct him and instead her gaze rests on Hans's reflection. She thinks he looks handsome and tousled. When she rouses herself, the scene is nearly over and she affects a look of concentration.
Â
PROFESSOR MIETTER
[very much at home, more admonishing than ever]
:
[very much at home, more admonishing than ever]
:
⦠Although you know who you are,
And are now freed from deception
And find yourself in a place
Where you stand above all,
Heed this warning that I makeâ
Be humble and be gentle
Because perhaps this is a dream
Even though you see yourself awake.
And are now freed from deception
And find yourself in a place
Where you stand above all,
Heed this warning that I makeâ
Be humble and be gentle
Because perhaps this is a dream
Even though you see yourself awake.
With exemplary professionalism, Professor Mietter makes as if to exit,
as indicated in the original text. Hans watches his gestures and thinks that, all in all, the professor isn't a bad actor. He tries to imagine him in costume on a stage. He succeeds so well that for a moment his eyelids grow heavy. He startles himself in mid yawn.
as indicated in the original text. Hans watches his gestures and thinks that, all in all, the professor isn't a bad actor. He tries to imagine him in costume on a stage. He succeeds so well that for a moment his eyelids grow heavy. He startles himself in mid yawn.
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RUDI:
⦠I know now
Who I am, and know I am
Half-man, half-beast.
Who I am, and know I am
Half-man, half-beast.
The first to applaud is Lady Rosaura, that is, Frau Pietzine. Ãlvaro and Frau Levin politely follow suit. Sophie gives a relieved smile, declaring: “And there, dear friends, our little production ends, congratulations.”
As he kissed her, Hans realised there was tension in Sophie's mouthâher lips were pursed, her tongue was rigid, her teeth seemed reticent. Is something the matter? Hans asked, withdrawing his lips. She smiled, lowered her head and embraced him. He did not ask her again.
Sophie sat at the desk and looked at Hans in silence, as if to say it was his turn. He went to open the trunk, took out a book and handed it to her. Do you remember our essay on German poetry? said Hans, attempting to sound cheerful. The one we did for the
European Review
? Well, before we send it off I'd like to add another poet, see what you think, it arrived yesterday from Hamburg,
The Book of Songs
by Heinrich Heine, only just published, apparently it's a roaring success, I read a review of it in the magazine
Hermes.
Sophie opened the book and noticed its appearance. It didn't look to her like a new copy, but she said nothingâshe had grown accustomed to Hans's bibliographical secrets. He seemed to notice her bewilderment and explained: The postal service is getting worse by the day, those clumsy postmen are so slapdash. So, what do you reckon? he asked.
(I'm not sure, she replied, he sounds awkward, as if he were sabotaging the seriousness of his own poems on purpose.) Yes! That's exactly what I like most about him. There's a poem in there, perhaps you saw it, about two French soldiers who return home after having been kept prisoner in Russia. Traveling through Germany they learn of Napoleon's defeat and begin to weep. The poem caught my attention because it dares to give the enemy a voice, and that is something we Germans would have appreciated in a French author when we were defeated. I believe that in today's poetry there is no place for half measuresâeither you aspire to being a Novalis or a Hölderlin, or you turn your back on heaven and try to be a Heine. (Wait a minute, Sophie said, slipping her finger between two pages, is this the poem you were talking about?
The Grenadiers
?) Yes, that's the one, shall we read it?
European Review
? Well, before we send it off I'd like to add another poet, see what you think, it arrived yesterday from Hamburg,
The Book of Songs
by Heinrich Heine, only just published, apparently it's a roaring success, I read a review of it in the magazine
Hermes.
Sophie opened the book and noticed its appearance. It didn't look to her like a new copy, but she said nothingâshe had grown accustomed to Hans's bibliographical secrets. He seemed to notice her bewilderment and explained: The postal service is getting worse by the day, those clumsy postmen are so slapdash. So, what do you reckon? he asked.
(I'm not sure, she replied, he sounds awkward, as if he were sabotaging the seriousness of his own poems on purpose.) Yes! That's exactly what I like most about him. There's a poem in there, perhaps you saw it, about two French soldiers who return home after having been kept prisoner in Russia. Traveling through Germany they learn of Napoleon's defeat and begin to weep. The poem caught my attention because it dares to give the enemy a voice, and that is something we Germans would have appreciated in a French author when we were defeated. I believe that in today's poetry there is no place for half measuresâeither you aspire to being a Novalis or a Hölderlin, or you turn your back on heaven and try to be a Heine. (Wait a minute, Sophie said, slipping her finger between two pages, is this the poem you were talking about?
The Grenadiers
?) Yes, that's the one, shall we read it?
⦠the two soldiers weep together
At the fateful news:
“How they hurt!” says one,
“How my wounds sting!”
At the fateful news:
“How they hurt!” says one,
“How my wounds sting!”
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“I would like to die with you,”
Says the second, “this is the end;
But I have a wife and children,
Who cannot live without me.”
Says the second, “this is the end;
But I have a wife and children,
Who cannot live without me.”
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“Wife, children? What matter?
Something grieves me more;
Let them live on charity,
In chains lies my Emperor!”
Something grieves me more;
Let them live on charity,
In chains lies my Emperor!”
Reading it through again, she commented, I'm not convinced the poem is Bonapartist. They feel bound to spill their blood for
Napoleon and this allegiance is inhuman, like the first grenadier's impassioned response when his companion fears for his family. You could be right, said Hans, I hadn't thought of it that way. Perhaps the poem's strength is the way it avoids condemning either of the grenadiers, it simply offers two different ways of understanding fate.
Napoleon and this allegiance is inhuman, like the first grenadier's impassioned response when his companion fears for his family. You could be right, said Hans, I hadn't thought of it that way. Perhaps the poem's strength is the way it avoids condemning either of the grenadiers, it simply offers two different ways of understanding fate.
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